


jack of all fears (master of none)

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: Or: the eight people who changed Jon's life.Orphaned at a young age, Jonathan Sims is adopted by the new Head of the Magnus Institute. His fate is irremediably altered.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 19
Kudos: 96





	1. elias bouchard

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written for the last rqbb but then i got writer's block - happens to the best of us. finally decided to finish it so here i am!

Jon really wishes Elias would just stop trying to saddle him with assistants. In his experience - which might still be new, but in which he believes fully - they're bound to be nothing but a hindrance.

"Why did you even think bringing tea in the office was a good idea?" Jon fumes. Between his hands, the old paper is getting soggier by the second, ancient ink bleeding and disappearing. Martin looks mortified. Good.

"I just - I thought it would be nice if - I thought that you could use a break, you've been looking at those files for an awfully long time -"

"Because it's my job," Jon cuts him off. He adds viciously: "What even is your job, Martin? Do you do anything around here apart from spilling water on documents that are older than both of us combined?"

"I - well, I -" Martin stutters, turning red with embarrassment.

Tim choses that moment to stop by the doorway. "Chill out, boss. I brought you that box and I know it's only filled with receipts. Hardly museum-worthy."

"This isn't the issue!" Jon hisses, glaring at him. "What if this proves useful in our work to sort through the disarray Gertrude left the Archives in?"

Tim honest-to-God sighs at him, then strides into the office. He snatches the fragile piece of paper from Jon's grasp; Jon lets out an outraged yelp and lets go of it just before it can rip.

"Let's see... ink, paper, a metal cabinet, a two-yards-long chain - okay, that last one is weird, but the rest seems pretty boring. Just let it go, Jon."

"Let it go?" Jon echoes. "I'll let it go if he -" and he points at Martin, who jumps as if Jon had physically poked him - "promises never to spill drinks over my work again."

"I'll be more careful in the future," Martin assures weakly.

"I sure hope you will. That was a glaring lack of professionalism." And, because he's feeling cruel: "Are you even qualified for this job?"

And there it is: color draining from Martin's face, his hands at his side, limp and damp, his eyes, wide and panicked. Jon stares at him, unblinking, as he crumbles. Then:

"I'll go, uh -" Martin clears his throat; he sounds like he's about to cry. "I'll go -"

"Yes," Jon says cooly. "I think you should."

Martin slinks away, and Jon directs his attention back to the mess in front of him. At least he's managed to save most of the papers; the one Tim is still holding is probably a lost cause, though.

"You don't need to be a dick, you know."

The expression on Tim's face isn't one Jon has seen before. He looks - a bit hurt, maybe. On Martin's behalf?

"He needs to learn," Jon says, a twinge of guilt worming his way into his heart. "We have a tremendous amount of work to accomplish. I don't need people who'll get in my way."

Tim has the audacity to roll his eyes. "Yes, I've heard this before. You don't need people, Elias, how many times do I have to tell you?" Jon's feeling of guilt deepens as he hears his own words quoted back at him. They weren't supposed to hear it - "Well, tough luck. We're here to stay. You might have bullied the previous teams into quitting, but we're not scared of you."

Jon narrows his eyes and thinks: you should be. There's a secret under Tim's handsome face, a trauma to be scraped off from the inside of his skull; for a beat Jon considers doing so, just so Tim finally leaves him alone. He can almost taste his anger and his fear, the memory of that terrible night - all of that terror, usually so carefully wrapped up, for him to unveil.

He dismisses the idea. It isn't worth the risk.

"I spilled the cup," he blurts out instead.

"What?"

Jon already regrets his new plan, but there's no turning back now. So he schools his features in a mask of neutral disinterest, the one that makes him look like he could actually be Elias' progeny, and repeats:

"I spilled the cup. I wanted Martin to stop interrupting my work, so I spilled the cup he set on my desk. Thankfully, it hit something unimportant."

Again, the look on Tim's face shifts into something unusual. This time it's thinly veiled disgust.

"What is -" Tim stops himself, and his face closes. _What is wrong with you,_ echoes loudly in his thoughts; a feeling of queasiness settles in Jon's guts, but he ignores it easily enough. Tim slaps the soggy paper he was still holding back on the desk, and turns on his heels. "You know what? Fine. Suit yourself. Be an ass. But -" he turns around in the doorway, giving Jon a wary look - "leave Martin alone."

Before Jon can quip back, the door of his office is slammed shut. He closes his mouth, and stares at the mushed up paper and spilled tea in front of him. Tim's unsaid words echo in his mind.

_What is wrong with you?_

* * *

To learn what is wrong with Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, we have to look back a decade or so. You already know the story: orphaned at a young age, begrudgingly adopted by a grandmother ill-fitted to raise another child - then injected in the system when she suddenly dies a couple of years later. (Was her death related to the strange experience Jon has had with one of the old books she'd acquired for him? Not impossible.) He thinks, for a couple of drab months, that he'll never find a family again; he asks too many questions, is too smart for his own good, too scrutinizing for his age. A _weird kid._

Then: Elias Bouchard, freshly appointed head of the Magnus Institute. The man has cold eyes and a colder smile, but he speaks to Jon as if he were an adult, and isn't it what any ten-years-old desires the most? The papers are signed quickly, and Jon is even faster to pack up his meager possessions. It doesn't take him long to get used to living in his new house, but his real home - as he soon discovers - is the Magnus Institute.

Elias - as he insists Jon calls him, no "father" or "dad" nonsense between them - brings him along whenever it's possible. It's no place for a child, or so the researchers say when they think Jon can't hear them. It doesn't matter; Jon feels welcomed by the building, if not by the people who work there. There are so many nooks and crannies to explore, and so many stories to discover. (Most of those stories, he discovers later, aren't stories at all. But we will come to this in a bit.)

His devouring curiosity is encouraged by Elias, as is his challenging attitude. He grows up an inquisitive child, always putting into doubt information he hasn't verified first. His certitude that he knows more than anybody often gets him into trouble with his teachers, but is just as often reinforced by Elias. You see, according to Elias, Jon has a _destiny_ \- a great purpose that's been decided for him the moment he picked up that old book a couple of years prior. _A Guest For Mister Spider_ was a peek behind the veil, the spark that ignited Jon's interest for the supernatural; instead of being afraid, traumatized by the experience, he's found himself wanting more - and Elias, with his grand Institute, is bringing him what he seeks on a silver platter.

(Jon had dreaded, for a bit, that the whole encounter had been nothing but an elaborate hallucination, or maybe a bad prank from his bully. But the boy had vanished, his parents convincingly bereft - their son lost to a creature Jon had almost been the victim of. It had to be real, _they_ had to be all real - the things existing in the dark, just at the limit of human consciousness.)

Elias knows about Mister Spider. He knows a lot, about a lot of things. He makes Jon feel like he can see right through him, and it doesn't take long for Jon to realize his caretaker is not quite as human as he might like to pretend. Elias doesn't deny it. He tells him about _chosen ones_ , about _avatars_. About the fears of every living thing, personified, crystallized in god-like beings, that bestow powers on those who serve them.

He tells him about the Beholding.

Jon asks too many questions, is too smart for his own good, too scrutinizing for his age.

He's perfect.


	2. tim stoker

Jon has been an avatar of the Watcher for nearly two decades now. His senses aren't as sharp as Elias' are - it's doubtful they'll ever be - but he's dedicated and talented. He's always considered his ability to Know a perk and a privilege - until today.

Terror permeates the air; his assistants', of course, but also his _own._ The worms have burst through the walls without so much as a warning. Jane Prentiss is wreaking havoc in the Archives, and the part of him not struggling to keep from panicking watches this with annoyance. He's locked in the storage room with Martin; as for Tim and Sasha -

Well. They're probably alive. He's almost sure he'd feel it if they weren't.

It doesn't do much to assuage his fear. From the privacy of his own head, he attempts to pull himself together: _you were born for this. Elias is counting on you. Your only goal is to get those scars. The rest doesn’t matter._

But then he makes the mistake of glancing at Martin - his gray complexion, his wide, terrified eyes - and Jon's resolution crumbles. Whatever happens, he can't let those poor fools get hurt.

How did he even reach that point ? When did he start caring about his assistants? It was easier at the beginning, when they were only mild annoyances to keep busy and blissfully ignorant. However, they've slowly but surely earned his trust and respect over the past few months - or at least, Sasha and Tim have. But even Martin isn't that bad, and he certainly doesn't deserve being trapped in a room and besieged by worms.

Again.

Now that he finds himself in that same situation, Jon regrets having done nothing to help Martin when it was only him, his sealed-tight appartement, and a living hive knocking at his door. He knew, and he did nothing. There's a hint of shame when he looks at Martin - regret, worming his way into his chest just like the real bugs did in his leg not so long ago.

"Sorry," Jon says, closing his arms around him. Martin gives him a confused glance, and Jon elaborates: "For not having checked on you when she had you trapped. It must have been - terrifying."

Martin looks away; his hands are nervously picking at the edge of his sweater.

"You couldn't have known," he says quietly - and, oh, here's the shame again. Jon opens his mouth to speak - and to say what? _"I did"?_ \- but Martin keeps talking, his eyes fixed on the ground. "It's - it's weird, you know? Like, now is terrifying too, but not as bad. At least, I -" he swallows, looks up at Jon. "At least I'm not alone, you know?"

 _At least I have you,_ the words echo in Jon's mind. He does his best to ignore what they mean, and how they make him feel. This isn't the time. It will never be the time.

"I know," Jon answers softly instead. Outside, the worms keep pressing against the door.

Something creaks ominously.

* * *

It's a long and gruesome process, but eventually all the worms are pulled out of his flesh. The myriad of wounds is painstakingly treated and patched, and Jon sits still through it all, exhausted now that the events are finally coming to a conclusion.

A couple of meters away, Tim is laid down on a gurney, going through the same operation. Jon can hear him laughing, exchanging quips with the paramedics, but he doesn't sound quite right. The banter is a habit, a coping mechanism he clings to while his world crumbles a bit more around him. (Jon could smell the stench of a supernatural experience around him even before today, that promise of a statement - but he'd never tried to know more. Ironic: an avatar of curiosity, respecting someone's privacy.)

Jon doesn't even think when the paramedics finally leave Tim alone. He walks up to him and sits down at his side, and says, not for the first time that day:

"Sorry."

Tim gives him a pale, tired smile.

"What for? You didn't let the worms in, did you?"

Jon shrugs. _No, but I know who did._ Once again, his irritation at Elias' inaction flares up; seeing Tim all bandaged up and so different from his usual chipper self makes him feel something he's not used to feeling:

Guilt.

"I'm the Head Archivist," he says as an explanation. "I'm responsible for what happens in the Archives."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Boss, you couldn't have predicted any of what happened today. Do you blame yourself for bad weather, too? No, don't tell me. Of course you do."

Jon makes a face, and Tim laughs. He playfully bumps his shoulder against Jon's.

"Don't worry about that, Jon. We're alive, and Prentiss isn't. It's over."

Jon knows it isn't; from the moment Elias had explained his plan to bring their god into the world, Jon has known danger would surround him; and it had been fine, for a long time, because he hadn't let anyone get too close - hadn't let anyone in a range where they could have gotten hurt (apart from Georgie, and look at what had happened.)

Jon gets up, looks toward the Institute. His jaw is set, and his gaze is hard.

"I'm going to make sure it is."

* * *

"Hey, boss!"

Jon looks up; Tim has cracked the door open just enough to get his head through.

"Mind if I come in?" he asks, and Jon barely suppresses a sigh. With all the interruptions, it's no wonder his attempt to order the Archives isn't getting anywhere.

He grumbles something that sounds like "go ahead", and Tim pushes the door further.

"Martin has brought some special tea today, something real fancy. We're taking a break, you wanna join us?"

This time, the sigh is harder to keep in. Jon pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and protectively closes his hands around the tape recorder on his desk.

"While I appreciate the fact that you're keeping liquids away from my desk," he says haughtily, "I'd appreciate it even more if you stayed focused on your work for more than thirty minutes at a time. This place is a mess, we can't afford to lose a second to put it back in order."

"Ha, very funny," Tim laughs. When Jon gives him a confused glare, he sobers up, though there's still a spark in his eyes. "Jon, it's past six. Our workday ended half an hour ago. What time do you think it is ?"

Jon's annoyance turns to bewilderment, and he taps his laptop out of sleep mode to check Tim's assertion.

"Oh."

"Oh," Tim mimics. "Get up, we're getting you some tea and some sunlight. I swear, you're going to waste away in there if no one forces you to do anything but work."

Jon grumbles, but stands up. Tim smiles.

"Here you go."

They make their way out of the Archives and toward the break room; Jon finally notices most people are already gone and that the daylight outside of the dusty windows has turned orange and gold. The door to the break room is half opened, and Jon can hear a muffled conversation behind it - an anxious murmur, interrupted by a barely louder comment and a giggle. He frowns suspiciously, and even more when Tim half-turns around to give him a mischievous look.

"You go first," Tim says louder than necessary, stopping in front of the door. The muffled conversation immediately stops, and Jon narrows his eyes.

"You better not have brought a dog in the building again," he grumbles.

"No, I swear you'll like this surprise. Oops, did I say surprise? I meant tea. You'll like this tea."

Tim isn't even trying to hide his smirk anymore. Jon, finally, sighs loudly; and, bracing himself, pushes the door.

"Happy birthday!!"

Jon immediately backs away in surprise, only to hit Tim's chest. He doesn't have enough eyes to take it all in; there are confettis, and a few balloons, and a _cake_ on the rickety table. There is, also, a steaming pot of tea next to it. At least that wasn't a lie.

Sasha springs into view, a large smile on her face; she's holding a very small present, which she thrusts into Jon's hands.

"You never told us your birthday was today!"

Jon almost drops the present, scrambles to keep his grip on it. He blinks owlishly, overwhelmed.

"Maybe it was because I didn't want a party," he groused, more out of confusion than from any real anger.

"Elias told us," Martin says shyly, and Elias - because he's here, of course, the smug bastard - chuckles.

"You don't make friends often, Jon. I thought you'd appreciate it."

"They aren't my -" Jon tries to protest, but then Tim gives him a light shove.

"Come on, boss. You don't need to lie to us. Haven't we been through enough together? The long nights of research? The frankly concerning noises that come from Artefact Storage sometimes? That one time we ran away from the cops when we broke into - uh, I mean," he cuts himself off, glancing guiltily at Elias.

Elias smiles. "I am just glad you're willing to go to such extremities for your work."

"Right. Right."

"Enough talking!" Sasha says excitedly. She grabs Jon's arm and pulls him closer to the table, where Martin is lighting the candles on the cake.

"Ready?" he asks once he's done with a timid smile at Jon.

"Oh, you really don't need to-" Jon starts to protest, but it's in vain: the others start singing. Jon shrinks on himself, picking at the package in his hands with nervous fingers. 

It's awkward. It's very, very awkward, Jon thinks. He's not used to being the center of attention, much less celebrated. But it is - nice, also, he supposes. He's never had people care about him like that, and God knows he didn't make it easy. He Knows more than anyone else, except for Elias, and even then he can't tell what brought those people to even liking him. 

It's pleasant enough, though. 

He leans toward the cake, and blows the candles out.

* * *

By the time Jon bursts through the door of Elias' office, he is fuming, trembling with rage and exhaustion. The bandages tug at his skin, his wounds itching underneath, and his legs want nothing more than to give up and let him collapse on the ground like a threadless puppet. But he stands before the large oak desk, his back ramrod straight, fuel by the remainder of the adrenaline coursing through his body.

"You didn't warn me," he accuses.

Elias lifts his eyes from his paper in a way that can only be called deliberate; he smiles placidly. "Ah, Jon. Congratulations on your second scar."

Jon ignores him. "You knew they were coming! You knew Prentiss was hiding under the Institute and about to attack! Why didn't you say anything?"

"Jon, calm down. Have a seat." Elias' tone doesn't admit a refusal, so Jon breathes in, and does so. "I didn't warn you because it would have defeated the purpose of the whole experience. You needed to be genuinely afraid. Would you have felt as scared if you had had the time to prepare?"

Jon dismisses him with a scoff. "I _was_ prepared! I was prepared for the pain - my own! Not anybody else's! I almost saw Tim die, Elias!"

"And that's regrettable," Elias sighs, not looking like he regrets a thing. "But every great plan requires sacrifices."

"I thought that was my role." Jon glares at him, though his rage is abating in the face of Elias' indifference. "This is _my_ sacrifice to make."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Elias says dryly. He gets up from his chair and walks around his desk so he can examine Jon's new marks from a closer range. He cradles Jon's jaw in his hand to tilt his head this way and that, lets out a satisfied hum. "There will be collateral damages. It is inevitable."

Jon impatiently swats Elias' hand away. "There doesn't have to be. How hard can it be to be marked by each Entity?"

Elias chuckles. "Not hard, with the right attitude."

Jon simply glares at him. Elias raises his hands in a placating manner. "Alright. I'll let you handle this, Jon."

"And leave my assistants out of it?"

" _Your_ assistants, hm?" He sounds almost curious, as if he's just noticed an interesting detail. Jon's glare gets more pointed, and he relents. "Of course. As long as they watch their steps."

"This isn't reassuring."

Elias' smile is cold, but affectionate too, in a way it only ever is when it is directed at Jon. "You know as well as I do that we live in a dangerous world, Jon. I can't guarantee they won't find themselves in a perilous situation, but I can promise you it won't be because of me."

It isn't in Elias' habits to lie, but still Jon narrows his eyes at him. He tries to catch a way to tell Elias is anything but genuine, and finds nothing. Eventually, his shoulders relax, and he grumbles:

"Let's hope they will be wise enough not to get into troubles, then."

Elias pats him sympathetically on the back; Jon lets him.


	3. sasha james

There's something off about Sasha.

It would make sense for her to still be a bit shaken up by the attack on the Institute; God knows Jon still is. That's not it, though; something is different in the way she looks, in the way she sounds. It itches at the back of Jon's mind, and he can tell it's bothering Elias as well - though when he asks, Elias simply says:

"She is your assistant, Jon. You know her better than I do. Why don't you speak to her?"

And what would he even ask?  _ Why do I expect to see someone else when I look at you? _

Eventually, Jon gives it a try.

"Have you done something to your hair?"

Sasha stops rifling through the pile of files on her desk and looks up. There's an amused twinkle in her eye.

"Where is that question coming from?"

Jon squints at her. "I don't know. There's something different about you today."

"Well," she taps pensively on her chin, "I am trying out this new shade of lipstick. And I'm wearing my glasses."

_ This isn't it,  _ Jon thinks. But what he says is: "Right, of course. New lipstick, new glasses."

Sasha grins, and again there's something that doesn't sit right with Jon, that stops him from smiling back. "Well, you aren't known for your sharp observation skills."

Jon resists the childish impulsion to pull his tongue at her, and forces a pale smile on his face instead. "At least I noticed something was different?"

She laughs. "Yes, alright. That's more than I can say about Tim."

"This," Jon grimaces, "isn't as reassuring as you might think it is."

"I resent that," Tim pipes up from the opposite desk. Sasha laughs again.

* * *

"Have you noticed anything different about Sasha lately?" Jon asks Martin later.

Without even glancing up from the old dusty tome he's searching through, Martin answers: "She's wearing her glasses today, isn't she?"

"Well, of course," Jon says testily. "Anything else?"

Martin takes a note, then looks up at Jon. " _ Is _ there anything else?"

Jon shrugs. "I don't know. She's seemed a bit - different, ever since the attack."

"Can you blame her?" Martin grimaces; his eyes glaze over a little bit as the memories swarm him. "It was rough for everyone."

"Of course it was," Jon snaps, annoyed. "This isn't it."

Martin shrinks on himself, and Jon clenches his teeth not to immediately apologize for his brusqueness. He's already grown too attached to his assistants; getting even more friendly with them wouldn't do anyone any good, in the long run.

"How are you feeling?" he asks instead, and ah. So much for keeping a distance. Martin glances up at him.

"What do you mean?"

Jon gestures vaguely. "You said it: it was rough. Plus, you found a dead body in the tunnels. Are you -"  _ doing alright _ , he wants to ask. What he forces out instead is: "- still capable of doing your job?"

Martin bristles defensively, and when did Jon start to associate him with the word "adorable"? "Of course I am! Everyone is back to work, even Tim and you, and you guys have gone through worse. Besides -" he hesitates, mumbles: "The less time I spend at my flat, the better."

The now familiar guilt is back, digging into Jon's conscience like Prentiss' worms had into his flesh. He struggles to shake it off; despite his best effort, he likes Martin.

"Well," Jon awkwardly says after a silence, "the storage room would be happy to have you back."

Martin gives him a small smile. "It might be, but I'm not sure Elias would agree."

"Elias has no power here," Jon declares, souring. "I am the head archivist, not him - and those are the archives."

The way Martin looks at him then - he doesn't need his powers to see the infatuation there, the borderline adoration, the longing.

Jon self-consciously runs a hand through his hair and looks away. "Anyway - I should get going," he says gruffly. "Those statements aren't going to read themselves."

"Of course," Martin murmurs. "See you later, Jon."

Jon grunts a goodbye back and retreats.

* * *

His first day at the Institute - that is, his first day as an  _ employee _ \- shouldn't make him feel as intimidated as it does. The place is familiar, and hums in recognition as he steps in; the people aren't, and he feels their eyes glide over him, then stop when they realize they don't know him. He hasn't been back in quite a long time - almost ten years - and few of the people who worked here them are still present. And there's no guarantee those would even recognize him.

"Ah. Jonathan, right?"

Except, maybe, for Gertrude Robinson, Archivist of the Institute and perhaps the only person Elias speaks of with something akin to uncertainty in his voice. She, at least, hasn't changed much; she looks older, of course, smaller than he remembers her, but she still draws the eye with the way she holds herself - the secret energy of her thin frame, the weight of her knowledge and wit. Her gaze is still piercing behind her glasses, as sharp as pins stuck through the wings of a butterfly.

"Miss Robinson," he acknowledges. "It's been a while."

Her smile does not reach her eyes. "It has. I trust you're doing well?"

"I am, thank you." He doesn't smile back, guarded. "Look, I hate to be rude, but I should get going. I'd rather not be late for my first day of work, you understand." 

"Oh?" Her eyebrow raises minutely. "Following in Elias' footsteps, then?" Before he can answer, she waves him away. "Don't let me keep you, then."

He eyes her suspiciously as he slinks away. She watched him go, her expression unreadable. 

* * *

"You're new here, aren't you?"

Suddenly pulled from his concentration, Jon jumps. He looks up to see a young woman standing next to his desk, her expression apologetic.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you! I'm Sasha, I work down in Artefact Storage."

She extends a hand in his direction, and Jon stares at it before remembering his manners.

"Jon," he mumbles as he shakes her hand. 

"Sorry?" 

"My name is Jon," he repeats more clearly. "This is my first day here." He doesn't mention the countless hours spent in the Institute as a child - this belongs to the past.

"Nice to meet you, Jon." Sasha has a nice smile, bright and warm like the sun. It's a bit intimidating. "Do you know the area a little? Have you decided where you're going to eat?"

"Eat?" He takes a look at his watch: twelve thirty. That explains why the other researchers around him are getting up and gathering their things. "Oh. Already?" 

The defeat in his tone makes Sasha laugh; he bristles, but doesn't say anything.

"I understand the first day jitters, but trust me, no one will give you the stink eye for going out to eat at a reasonable hour." She leans toward him conspiratorially. "At least, I won't say anything."

"Thank you for your generosity," Jon says dryly. She laughs again. It seems to be a thing she does a lot. Jon... doesn't hate the sound of it. "Hey, tell you what, me and a couple of friends are going to that small Italian restaurant just around the corner. Do you wanna come with?"

Jon hesitates, glances down at the mess of papers on his desk. If it were up to him, he'd just go scrounge up something from the depths of the break room's cupboard as to be able to go back to his research as soon as possible, but -

But this stranger - Sasha - is looking at him with hopeful eyes, like she actually wants to spend some time with him, and this is rare enough that it gives him pause.

"Well," he says slowly in the end," I suppose I could stand to take a break -"

"Perfect. Grab your coat and let's go!" 

This time, when she smiles, he smiles back.

* * *

Jon is angry - at himself for not finding out sooner, at Elias for not saying anything,  _ again _ . He's terrified, too, and while there's a party of glee in the way he experiences fear, he wishes it didn't make him half-lose his senses. Above all, Jon is bone-crushingly, heart-breakingly sad. 

Sasha is dead. 

Sasha has been dead for a while - most likely since Prentiss' attack on the Archives - and the thing currently hunting Jon down has replaced her. He should have known, he should have known, he should have  _ known! _ The unfamiliarity of her features, the way technology seemed to be breaking down around her - so many signs he should have taken heed of and reacted to.

At least, he thinks without humour, the Stranger is about to leave its mark on him. 

He can't make it too easy, though, or it will get suspicious; so he runs down tunnels where his abilities are useless, and tries not to make a noise when the thing that has stolen Sasha's life calls for him.

One day, he swears, he'll make it pay for it.


End file.
